It's All Fine
by Marcie T
Summary: Love is a dangerous disadvantage, but Sherlock Holmes is as prone to it as any human. A collection of drabbles and one-shots based on the complex relationship developed between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Crap Telly

1. Crap Telly.

"Sherlock? You're still watching that? I _knew _I shouldn't have introduced you to that channel, I just knew it. If I'd known it'd make you stay up till three in the morning—" John abruptly quieted as he caught sight of the young detective, realizing his words were being wasted. Sherlock's face, illuminated by the pale glow of the television screen, was drooping to one side. His lips were parted just enough to allow the faint snores that indicated that he was asleep. "Sherlock?" He suppressed a smile of amusement. It was almost endearing to realize that the only consulting detective in the world, the brilliant and dignified Sherlock Holmes, still snored when he slept. "Oh."

He must have unintentionally fallen asleep. John's smile gradually shifted into a pout of disapproval as he looked over his companion's cramped position on the small sofa. Clearly it wasn't built for sleeping, as Sherlock seemed to be slumped uncomfortably against one of the arm rests. He didn't want to leave him there like that.

John sighed as he knelt close to the sleeping figure. He was tall, but his slender figure suggested that he wasn't particularly heavy. Exhaling gently, he shifted Sherlock's weight on his shoulder. "Up we go then," John's voice was strained as he lifted his sleeping flatmate up with him. It wasn't that he was heavy, exactly. Sherlock was about as light as he'd anticipated, but it was the face full of curls that was making the trip difficult. After a few unsteady steps, he'd managed to find his way into the dark hall that led into Sherlock's bedroom.

As usual, it was a complete mess. John evaded a stack of laundry, briefly missing the dangerously piled books that were stacked just a step away. Time and time again, he'd chastised the detective about his unkempt room, but Sherlock always seemed to be more satisfied arranging his things in his own messy, cluttered manner. He appeared to know exactly where everything was that way, although it proved taxing when having to move silently in the dark.

After what seemed like an eternity, John reached tentatively for the bed, letting his fingertips find the soft fabric of the bed sheet. "Alright then." With a grunt, he started to lean Sherlock back into the mussed pillows as gently as he could, hoping that he wasn't moving brusquely enough to wake him. Apparently his efforts had been wasted, however, since, before he could turn to leave, the cold grip of Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his wrist.

"Don't go," mumbled the weary voice.

"What?" John almost sounded exasperated. This was another display of the detective's humor, no doubt. He scanned his face for signs of his familiar smugness, but he could only make out sleepy eyes and a look of seriousness. The expression of exacerbation on his face was quickly replaced by one of skepticism. "It's not funny, Sherlock."

"I'm not joking."

Was he actually inviting him into his bed? For a second, the doctor was at a loss for words. Taking advantage of the moment, Sherlock coaxed him closer to the warmth of the bed with a soft tug. Did he even know what he was saying? His heart thumped sporadically in his chest. Sherlock seemed to still be half asleep—he could just be spewing nonsense on account of his lethargic state. John was about to pull his wrist from the young man's grip, but he felt his fingers tighten in one last attempt at keeping him there.

"_Please_ stay." Sherlock's voice was no more than a husky whisper.

And, again, John found that he couldn't leave him.


	2. Passwords

2. Passwords.

Sherlock's lips twitched upward into a self-satisfied smirk as the welcome sign appeared on the screen. This was about the second dozen time John tried to change the password, and it was always something immensely simple. He'd guessed this one within two attempts, and it appeared that his partner had long given up hope on actually keeping Sherlock out of his laptop. Rather, he suspected that John might even be having fun with this little game of theirs now. This time it had been switched to "stop it Sherlock."

Once everything was done starting up, a tab labeled "restore" caught his eye. John must have turned off his laptop without caring to delete the browser. The detective's eyebrows rose slightly at this, and he shot a quick glance to the door to make sure his flat mate wasn't going to come home early by surprise.

"Let's see here, Dr. Watson." Sherlock said, clicking the mouse with a triumphant smile.

It hadn't been updated since the last time John had decided to write, but he could have sworn he'd heard John typing something earlier. Sherlock never mentioned it to John, but he'd read all of the young doctor's entries. Ever since the first one, he'd seen to it that he read everything he put on his blog.

His eyes scanned the screen for a few seconds, until he finally found it. A section marked "personal." There was a (18) next to the word, and Sherlock realized it had never occurred to him that John might save some private entries for himself. He figured that must have been what he was working on.

He hesitated in opening the files, torn between an enormous curiosity and the daunting realization that John may have wanted it to be hidden from _everybody,_ not just the general public. Sherlock felt the judgmental stare of his skull from atop the living room's cluttered coffee table. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he felt the need to defend himself from the disparaging cranium of his "friend" on the table.

"Oh, I'll just skim through it. I just wanted to take a look."

With that, Sherlock felt better about clicking on it. The document that expanded had a short snippet of writing on it:

_Almost Christmas_

I'm worried about Sherlock. I don't even know if he catches it himself, but sometimes he stares off at his phone, and I'm pretty certain it's because he's waiting for her to text him. I know she hasn't sent him anything—partly because I haven't heard that God-awful message tone, but mostly because of how miserable he seems. I've never seen him this depressed. Sometimes he seems to forget to eat, but I put the tea on the kettle and leave him a separate plate of food. He hardly ever eats it. I'm starting to think he wants to let it get cold on purpose so that he has an excuse to throw it away.

It's sometimes hard to understand Sherlock, but I think he's in love.

December 20th,

J.W.

"Sherlock, I brought back some tea." The familiar voice of his flat mate interrupted his quiet reflection. "They didn't have yours, so I thought you could make do with some green tea, at least."

Sherlock glanced back at the sound of the door opening in time to see John stop. He let out a groan at the sight of his open laptop propped in front of the young detective. John had grown too used to this invasion of privacy to become annoyed at it anymore.

"I swear, that must be the twentieth time I've changed that password." He'd started, trying to smother a humored smile. "How do you always manage to find a way to—?"

John wasn't able to finish his sentence. The rest of his sentence hung in the air as he felt himself being enveloped into an unexpected embrace.

"Thank you for the tea, John." He'd murmured into his shoulder, leaving the stunned doctor at a loss for words. Tentatively, his arms returned the hug. His voice was somber—too quiet. It was clear that this didn't have to do with tea, but, as he peered around Sherlock's curls, he could only make out his blank desktop on the laptop. If he'd been looking up something, he'd already closed it out before John had entered.


	3. Text Messages That Were Never Sent

3. Text Messages That Were Never Sent.

From the drafts of the cellular device belonging to Sherlock Holmes:

**April 5th:**

You've been away for a long time with Sarah.

When are you coming back home?

SH

**April 19th:**

Do you like New Zealand?

The flat seems a lot more empty without you.

SH

**April 24th:**

Sorry about Sarah.

I cleaned my room because I know you don't like to come back to a mess.

SH

**July 27th:**

Are you getting back soon?

That show we watch is on already.

SH

**July 27th:**

Well, unless you're with that one new girl.

I'll tell you what happens if you don't make it in time.

SH

**November 30th:**

I wrote a composition for you.

I can't find the right notes to end it with, though.

SH

**December 4th:**

I've been trying to work on your song.

It's more difficult than I'd thought.

SH

**December 18th: **

There are really long lines at the store.

I know you said no gifts but I'm still looking for your Christmas present.

Hope the cold weather lets up.

SH

**December 25th:**

Merry Christmas.

SH


	4. Experiments

4. Experiments.

• KNO3 (potassium nitrate).

• 1 lb of sugar.

• Saltpeter.

• Baking soda.

• Organic powdered dye.

• Boysenberry muffins.

John looked blankly at the grocery list in his hand. Only Sherlock could add muffins to a list of stipulations contrived of what appeared to be ingredients for a homemade explosive. How on earth would he even be taken seriously asking for potassium nitrate while holding a bag of pastries? It occurred to him that Sherlock's requests were becoming ridiculous, like bringing him platters of frozen toes from the freezer or being awoken at odd hours of the night because he didn't know how to change channels on the remote.

The familiar beep of his phone interrupted his thoughts. With an aggravated huff, he selected "OK" to view the message contents of what he was sure to be Sherlock texting him.

Don't forget to pick up some more tea too.

- SH.

* * *

"There's an extra pair of goggles on the table."

"Is this even remotely safe, Sherlock?"

He grinned mischievously as he rummaged through a box of lab equipment. "Probably not, no."

John returned an amused smile. "Might as well." The detective looked up at the sound of him snapping on the accompanying pair of rubber gloves. It seemed like the fact that he actually wanted to join him on one of his experiments was pleasantly surprising to him. With a hint of a smile, he turned back to the bubbling liquid on the counter top. "So what are we doing?"

"Mixing things, seeing how they react—I'm not quite sure." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a giddy expression, and for a moment John wasn't sure whether to take him seriously or not. His flatmate was constantly surprising him, and it wouldn't be entirely unexpected if it turned out that he wasn't fully knowledgeable of what he was doing. "Help me pour this in; I need to find my pipette."

John wasn't even sure what he was being handed. Doubtfully, he looked into the flask of powdery white. It looked like a regular cup of flour but, knowing Sherlock's wild "research", this very well may be composed of some deadly toxic material that melted off human skin to the touch. With a few hesitant shakes, he emptied the contents into the bubbling red liquid. "Do I have to stir it now or something?"

There was a sudden crash in the cabinet that he took to be Sherlock's head bumping into the top shelf. "You didn't put in _all _of it, did you?"

The doctor shot Sherlock a bewildered look as his face pulled out of the shelf. "You didn't say not to!"

Before he could add anymore to his defense, Sherlock threw himself at him, sending the smoking flask toppling onto the counter. Almost instantaneously, a cloud of red smoke erupted from the surface just above their heads, and John felt a hand covering his gaping mouth. "Close your eyes. Don't breathe in!"

Feeling the sting of tears reacting to the colored smoke, he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly followed his flatmate out by the tug of his hand. As soon as he heard the kitchen door slam behind them, both of them burst in a fit of violent coughing.

"I never specified _when_ to pour it." Sherlock managed to sputter, laughing despite the circumstances.

John couldn't help it, joining Sherlock as they doubled over in laughter. After a minute or so of childish giggling, John remained smiling. Their fingers were intertwined from when Sherlock had essentially rescued him from the smoke-filled kitchen, and John was quite aware of the sensation of their hands still gripped together. "Ah, well, we've learned our lesson then."

At that, they burst into laughter again.


	5. Flushed Cheeks

5. Flushed Cheeks.

"Did you change the channel to this yourself?"

John shot an irritated glance at his flat mate. Sherlock was curled into the seat with his curls flattened against one of the armrests. His face was hidden from the doctor's view, but he could assume it was glaring at the television screen in distaste. "You don't like it? It hasn't even been ten minutes into the program and you're already upset about its ending."

"It's predictable." Sherlock's words sounded clipped and curt, as if speaking was making him irritated.

"How do you know?"

"They already introduced the shady cop in the beginning - they don't have to waste time introducing the criminal later in the show, obvious culprit, slapdash plot: dull."

"It wasn't very dull to _me,_" John grumbled, reaching for the remote in defeat. There was yet to be a single criminal scene investigation show that hadn't been spoiled by one of Sherlock's denigrating rants or his criticism. Worst yet, his predictions were rarely ever incorrect, so John always ended up being forced to change the channel halfway through the episode. He expected his flat mate to continue on about how the show wasn't designed to entertain brilliant detectives such as himself or about how John was simple-minded enough to appreciate the show but Sherlock didn't reply. He looked questioningly towards the slumped figure. It occurred to him that he hadn't said much this whole evening, even considering how bored the man usually got whenever they were in between cases. It was odd that his complaints were cut so short and held back. "Are you feeling alright, Sherlock?"

He already knew Sherlock was too stubborn to swallow his pride and admit that he wasn't feeling well. The detective could very well be in his death bed and still manage to choke out the word "yes" with his last breaths. As he predicted, Sherlock answered with an, "I'm fine," but that was still enough for John to evaluate him. The words sounded hollow and distant, as if his voice were being caught and distorted in his throat. Without asking, he reached out and pressed a hand against Sherlock's forehead, feeling him stiffen at the unexpected contact.

"You're burning up—no wonder you've been so quiet all evening. Your throat's swollen and you've been trying to avoid talking because it's strained."

Sherlock didn't even try to muster up anything in his defense, which already indicated to John how ill he must be. The detective's skin had a sickly tone to it, with beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Even with the sheet wrapped around his body, though, he could feel his trembling under his touch. "I'm _fine._"

"Jesus, Sherlock, I know I don't have half your 'deductive genius'—" John was about to continue on with his tirade but, as he looked down at Sherlock, he let the rest of his sentence trail off, sighing instead. It had been no wonder he'd been turned away like that, pressing the sheet around him in an effort to drive off the cold sweat he was in. Pink cheeks, red nose, the short, ragged breaths that were coming out in almost imperceptible, wheezing huffs. Sherlock _hated _being vulnerable like this, and it made it even worse to admit that he was. "You're not well," he said, more gently. The detective looked up at him stubbornly but it only aggravated his flushed cheeks further, deepening the red that spread over his face. "I'm getting you something for your fever and, when I come back, you're getting into bed."

"Honestly, John, you don't have to fuss so much—" Sherlock started to insist, but the army doctor was already heading off to grab his coat.

"You forget I'm a doctor." His voice echoed out as he turned into the hallway. "It's my job to fuss about you." The door clicked shut.


	6. Frayed Wool

6. Frayed Wool

Sherlock's glanced to the door as he heard the familiar sound of footsteps clamoring up the stairs in the hallway. It was John, coming home from work. His steps sounded more rushed than usual, sloppy and hurried as if he was rushing to escape the cold.

Winter was making the flat unarguably chilly. If the heating had been thought inadequate before, the air was like ice now. Sherlock pressed the blanket tightly against himself. He couldn't help thinking that John must be miserably cold. He always left wearing those thin jumpers. It hardly seemed like enough protection indoors, let alone on his way to and from work.

"Is the furnace out, Sherlock? It's freezing in here."

Sherlock turned to see a red-nosed John opening the door. His eyes lingered unintentionally as his flat mate removed a coat (vaguely damp from precipitation). When John's eyes met his, he forced his back on the television, feeling oddly self-conscious.

"It turned on and went out." He tried to stare at the women talking on screen, but he wasn't particularly concerned with the program.

"Damned thing," was all he muttered, sinking beside him on the sofa he was sitting on. "I can't see why it won't _stay_ fixed."

Sherlock didn't reply. What he wanted to tell John was that he'd attempted to make him something warm, but he'd taken too long in coming home. Or perhaps, had his nerves gotten the best of him? John had come home empty handed, so he hadn't taken a detour. No, if anything, John had been earlier than usual, rushing home to avoid the weather.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable at the sudden uncertainty. It was so easy to analyze everybody else's feelings, but his own were a mystery even to himself. He could unravel the life of a person by just looking at them, but he couldn't even understand his own emotions or why he even thought a certain way.

Could it be that he'd actually gotten nervous? Sherlock had never been the type to show he "worried" about something too much - namely people. It was possible he'd just convinced himself that the tea had grown cold prematurely, trying to find an excuse to dump it down the sink before he gave off the impression of being overly-caring.

John had been talking - something boring, probably, about his day at work, maybe a patient (he'd stopped listening after he heard something about "an assignment" that Sarah had assigned).

"... I've had the longest appointments... I could hardly could stay awake while she was talking - " He blinked and studied John quietly, watching his hands as they rubbed against his sleeves of his thin jumper for warmth. From the slight opening in his sleeve, he could catch sight of the gooseflesh that had appeared on his skin. "At least I have the weekend ahead of me, thank God. I thought this week would never end."

With that, John stretched his arms out, relaxing as he settled into a content silence and fixed his attention on the television. Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's cold," he blurted finally.

The other man hesitated, confused by the irrelevant statement. "Well, yeah, it's pretty cold."

"Your jumpers aren't ever very thick... you must be even colder." Sherlock added slowly. His words felt unnatural, and he suddenly regretted opening his mouth in the first place. Stupidly, he added, "It's been rather cold lately with the heating out."

"Yeah, it's pretty nasty out," John had replied uncertainly. He eyed him, trying to figure out where Sherlock was going with the obvious statements.

Why was this so difficult? Sherlock's brow furrowed as he struggled to find the right words. Normally, he didn't care about what anybody else thought. In fact, he'd always found it ridiculous how everybody was so interested in something so pointless as somebody else's opinion. So why was he trying to word his suggestion so carefully? It was logical, wasn't it?

"It'd may be smarter if we shared this blanket... It's not _that _thick but, well, it would... conserve body heat." He paused and tried to appear nonchalant as he looked for John's reaction. The other man looked almost perplexed by his proposal, almost as if he was trying to decide whether he'd heard Sherlock correctly or not. He felt like it needed further explanation. "You know, with the heating out and everything," He added quickly, finally mumbling, "Just a suggestion," before he clamped his mouth shut.

He glued his eyes back on the television, feeling idiotic. God, he shouldn't have said anything at all.

What was wrong with him? He felt as if he were losing his identity. Sherlock, who didn't concern himself with petty things like "feelings" or "caring," was suddenly having trouble putting together a simple sentence for fear of... what, exactly? He didn't even know why he was so nervous. He lived with the man, for God's sakes. Why was it so difficult for him just to speak? John had become something baffling to Sherlock. Friends and opinions and affections had been irrelevant before, but now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock wasn't _used_ to caring about someone, much less how they would react to something he said.

He heard the scuffling of John's shoes on the floor as he got up off the couch, but he wasn't going to allow himself to turn and look. He kept his eyes planted on the screen, gritting his teeth in frustration. He'd made him uncomfortable and scared him away like everybody else. He shouldn't have been so stupid.

Unexpectedly, he felt John's smaller frame wedge beside him on the couch. He glanced at the man, raising his eyebrows the slightest bit. Neither of them spoke about the matter further. John just reached for the remote and leaned back against Sherlock, who looked back at the television and gradually relaxed against the soft feeling of John's arm. They both remained quiet, letting the rest of the room fall into a comfortable silence as the television droned softly; there wasn't really an immediate need for conversation, but that was all just fine with Sherlock.


	7. Storms

7. Storms

John jolted up in bed. Rain was pounding heavily against the ceiling. With a shuddering breath, he looked out the window to see a flash of jagged light streak across the sky. He had never been fond of the storms. John's breath caught in his throat as another flash of lightning illuminated his window. It wasn't the lightning he was very worried about right now; rather, he was much more concerned with what always followed. His hands immediately went up to his ears to muffle the roar of thunder.

The doctor swallowed thickly, trying to regain his normal breathing. It was pathetic of him, he knew. The honorary war veteran, army doctor John Watson, was scared of _lightning_. Sherlock wouldn't be afraid. Sherlock probably wasn't ever bothered by his nightmares, given that he had any. Sherlock Holmes was rational and John Watson was not.

To John, nightmares weren't just thoughts played out by his unconscious mind. He couldn't think of them like that. His nightmares were like being thrown into a frightening, alternate reality. Flashbacks, loud noises, people falling, shouting, that searing pain in his arm. And then: blood. So much blood. And pain like he wouldn't believe. And everything was just so damned _loud_. John bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut as thunder grumbled in the distance. O_h _how he absolutely hated doing this, but he couldn't get through this storm alone. In a moment of idiotic fearfulness, he pulled himself out of the bed and staggered desperately for the door across the hall.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

There was no answer. John sighed and let out a curse under his breath. What was he doing? He was a grown man. He wasn't supposed to do this. He couldn't whimper and hide away from some petty fear.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock's voice was sleepy and low, and John realized he'd probably just woken him up.

He froze, but no believable excuse came to mind when he opened his mouth to explain why he'd woken him. Sherlock had probably already figured it out anyway: the stammer, the obvious fear in his voice, the way his footsteps had sounded so frantically rushed down the hallway but hesitated so at the door. He swore again.

"Still there, John?"

"Um... n-no. I mean yes. I mean, I'm _here_—nothing's wrong, never mind."

John mentally berated himself. He probably sounded like an imbecile. His breaths were low and hasty.

"You could come in, you know."

He should have just left. He should have just walked away, or tried to explain himself. He should have just said _anything_ - anything that didn't make him look so pitiful and weak. But Sherlock would have known anyway. Sherlock always knew. His resolve weakened, and he stepped in meekly.

"You're having nightmares." Statement, not a question. Sherlock didn't ask obvious questions.

"Yeah." There was no use in lying to Sherlock.

"Come here, then."

No, no, this wasn't right. He was acting ridiculous. Sherlock shouldn't have to be comforting him, and he shouldn't be crawling into his bed like a small child. God, he probably looked like such an idiot_. _But he couldn't fight it. Fear was so much stronger than John was. His forehead was still damp with cold sweat, and it seemed every inch of his body was still trembling.

The distant grumble of thunder weakened the last of his resolve, and he couldn't help it any longer. With a few blind steps, he stumbled into the darkness, latching onto Sherlock as soon as his fingers had found him.

"I-I'm sorry." he gushed, but he was gripped on to him with no intent of letting go.

The sounds of his shuddering breaths were muffled by the detective's chest as he let him in closer. "It's alright." His murmurs were warm breaths in his ear. Sherlock was surprisingly gentle. He never saw this side of him. He was so used to the Sherlock that was curt and insensitive with people that it almost surprised him that he could be so comforting.

John squeezed his eyes shut even tighter at the shriek of another howl of wind, fingers digging into Sherlock's back. He felt humiliated at being so overtly terrified. "Damn it." He gushed out the words in shuddering gasps. "Sherlock, I'm sorr—"

"You don't have to apologize for being frightened."

"N-no, it's... I _know_ it's pathetic." John tried to force the words out but he struggled with the syllables, feeling a sickening wave of shame. He was practically clinging on to his flat mate. John's teeth gritted in frustration. He was glad that it was too dark for Sherlock to see his cowardly tears.

"I'd say the same thing to Mycroft. You'd be a fool to go through life without being scared of anything." Sherlock's hand found John's head, twisting into his hair softly. "Everybody's scared of something, John."

"You too?"

Sherlock pressed him closer against him, holding him protectively as the rain drummed against the ceiling. Maybe, just for one second, the rain seemed peaceful. Soothing, even. And, maybe for just one second, John had even forgotten about his nightmares. Sherlock was like refuge, like safety.

"Me too."


	8. Drug Habits

**8. Drug Habits.**

Sherlock remembered what it was like to use cocaine. Granted, he had no intentions of ever using it again, but he could recollect the feeling of dopamine flooding his system. He couldn't say it was unpleasant; he didn't mind the heightened senses. God, how he could focus. Even his vision had felt sharp, almost as if everything had been bathed in a different sort of light. Sherlock could have done without the blood rushing through his head or the steep rise in temperature, but, otherwise, he'd reveled in the bursts of energy and euphoria.

He'd only used hallucinogenics a few times, pleasured by the altered sense of reality but not enough to continue the drug use without a particular motive. He'd had his share of auditory hallucinations, sometimes garbled voices and sometimes distant sounds of what he thought sounded like singing and snippets of conversation. It was the visual hallucinations that had fascinated him. The colors and the way light erupted into millions of crystals and the dancing shapes and sometimes that faces of people he knew that slowly melted back into the air. Drugs were certainly pleasurable, but he had no use for them, which was why he'd stopped using them in the first place. There was no point.

Something had occurred to Sherlock when John had been fretting about hiding his cigarettes- it had just been a small, passing notion, but now, he couldn't seem to shake the thought. John had been adamant on ending Sherlock's drug habits, but, as he thought of drugs themselves, he'd realized John had become a sort of drug to him.

It wasn't that John was his addiction (although, unarguably, Sherlock felt agitated when going through a long period of time without the doctor's acknowledgement), but he'd become more of a potent influence on him. There was a surprising similiarity between being with John and ingesting cocaine: the heightened heart rate, the raising body temperatures, the incredible focus, the energy, the excitement. The buried euphoria.

These feelings were confusing, but, at the same time, Sherlock had noted that his motives for taking drugs were rather similar to his reasons for wanting John around all the time: there was actually none. None, other than the simple pleasure they caused him, but, all the same, both had the potential to become an unhealthy addiction.

It was almost ironic. John had made an effort to hide Sherlock's nicotine source away from him, forbidding him from drugs when, in fact, John Watson had become his most potent one.

* * *

Thought I'd make a short little reflection on Sherlock's old drug use and tie in some fluffy thoughts, haha.

Anyway, thanks to all my fantastic readers who've sent reviews so far! You guys are great, and the encouragement is lovely.


	9. Holiday Cheer

**9. Holiday Cheer**

"Sherlock, why are you making this _so_ damned impossible?"

"Oh, but this wasn't my idea. I wasn't the bloke who decided to go and ring people up before you even made any preparations."

He raised his eyebrows at John for effect. The doctor's jaw immediately clamped into a familiar expression of stubborness. Sherlock wasn't threated in the least. John's glower resembled that of a small, angry child. In fact, it was almost endearing to see him worked up over something so simple.

"For God's sake - can't you just be at least cooperative for one day of the year? You can't even be with your friends on a special occassion?"

Sherlock busied himself with his microscope, assuming that his lack of response would suffice as an answer. He could hear John let out a sharp breath as he turned back to the tangled jumble of christmas lights. As the lights clinked delicately on the floor, Sherlock looked up again to see John's back turned, working the cords in quiet anger. His shoulders were stiff.

He didn't understand why this was so important to John. Holidays had never seemed particularly exciting to Sherlock. They were just another excuse for people to fuss over things like exchanging pointless cards or being overly cheery. Mrs. Hudson was already enough for him to deal with, and John had gone and rang up half of London to join them at their flat.

The clinking had stopped, and he heard the stretch of tape as John busied himself with yet another task.

He was adamant on having this party, however. No matter how unprepared he'd realized he was, no matter how unhelpful Sherlock was deciding to be, no matter how many hours he'd already spent just trying to unravel the cords of lights, he wasn't going to call this off.

Sherlock studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "Why are you going through all this trouble?"

He didn't turn around to look at him, but he could hear him drop the cords gently. "It's once a year, Sherlock."

"Why? Why does it have to be any day of the year at all? It's pointless. You've been running around the apartment and irritated about broken ornaments and ineffective lights and planning dinner, and I assume that's hardly what the ideal Christmas should be like." Even now, only half the flat was clean, and the door was the only decorated aspect of the house that John had actually been satisfied with.

It was true. John had been working feverishly for about two or three hours now and he was nowhere near done. He'd constantly been running back and forth between the half-decorated living room and the kitchen that smelled mostly of burnt meals. In fact, Sherlock had just been berated for not making any attempts to save his turkey even though there was black smoke billowing out of the oven.

"Alright then, Sherlock."

Even for Sherlock, that answer was unexpected. Perhaps he was being sarcastic, but John's tone was too tired to even be angry. He waited uncertainly for John to say that he wasn't serious, but he didn't.

"You're right, it's pointless. I don't even see why I bother. You don't care." A thumping sound made him look up from the microscope in time to see John leaving, and he turned to see what had been placed in the table in front of him.

That's what John had been working on, then. He touched the colorful box gently, careful to not harm the red and green paper that covered it. A white ribbon had been tied around it, adorning it with a sagging bow. A present. Sherlock suddenly felt a gnawing sensation in his chest, and it took a long moment to identify it as regret. It was rare, but seeing the festive wrapping paper had undoubtedly struck him with it. He suddenly wished John hadn't left the room so quickly, and he wish he hadn't been the one that had caused him to do so. The words, in retrospect, had been rather insensitive. Maybe not to his standards, but he knew he'd probably hurt John.

Sherlock's fingers found the card dangling from the knot, and he turned it over to read it.

_Happy holidays, you unspirited bloke. Here's to a Merry Christmas._

_ - Your best mate, JW._

_ P.S. Hope you enjoy your gift_

* * *

"John, I don't think we have enough lights."

"Bugger off, Sherlock, I'm not in the mood." John was slumped wearily against the couch, already watching something on the telly. Sherlock smiled vaguely at the stony glare he was directing towards the screen.

"I think you miscalculated something in your measurements, you didn't bring more than enough to string up more than a wall and a half."

He looked up at Sherlock in exasperation, studying him for a second or two before realizing he was actually serious. John would have tried to maintain the grimace on his face, had it not been so amusing to see that Sherlock was helplessly struggling with an armful of lights and tinsel. He wasn't looking at John anyway - he was too busy fumbling with a stray ornament that rolled around on the cords.

John couldn't help but smile at noticing that Sherlock was already wearing his gift.


End file.
